


i guess i'm lying to myself, it's just you and no one else

by coastcitytourism



Series: will never let you go this time [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, gratuitous use of the word 'like', hm yeah its not great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: "...salt water filling his lungs and stinging his wounds, blood dyeing the water Ferrari red, all Pierre can do is catch himself in the mirror of the entryway and think-Who are you anymore?"
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Series: will never let you go this time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688728
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	i guess i'm lying to myself, it's just you and no one else

**Author's Note:**

> ive been so ridiculously stuck in writers block lately, i'm sorry guys :( just not feeling like anything i've been writing has been flowing the way i want it to, this is a step closer, but not great still.  
anyways, as we are in the midst of a global pandemic, i'm sure most of you are aware of social distancing and quarantine, and some of you may even be in required governmental lockdown- i am sending all of my love to you all, stay strong. while im in a part of the US that hasnt been quite so affected yet, my college has moved to all online, my job is postponed indefinitely (as it is tied into my college staying open), and i've been staying home as much as possible. things are not great, but now i've much more time at home to write, so there are at least some positives! stay strong everyone, stay home when you can, and we will get through this together.  
anyways this is angsty and not gr8 but its allowed me to actually just finish writing SOMETHING, so we are off to a slightly better start.  
partially inspired by the songs knee socks by arctic monkeys, and miss you by the rolling stones, which the title is from.  
as always this is a work of fiction, keep it here, dont share off here w/o my permission, blah blah blah.

Charles smells like cigarettes. He smells like smoke, and it's absolutely confounding, because the Monegasque has long wrinkled his nose up at the idea of smoking, even socially, has rejected many a friendly bummed cigarette.

_What the fuck, Charles? Who are you anymore?_

Pierre doesn't think about it. He knows better; even after all these years, Charles is a conglomeration of questions that Pierre knows better than ask for the answer to. If he hasn't already been told, he's pretty damn sure he doesn't want to know. It's easier to not say anything, even when it gets him into heartbreak and hurt.

Besides, he's a little preoccupied, because now Charles has gone from breathing up the atmosphere of Pierre's personal space and smelling like unfamiliar men and smoky clubs and ratty casinos to shoving the Frenchman back against the door of his apartment, one hand on his hip, pressing it flat against the tasteful antique woodgrain, and the other pressing just enough against Pierre's throat to stop the air from flowing in.

_Tell me, Pierrot, is this where we belong?_

The Frenchman gasps for a breath, barely capable of focusing on anything because _oh God, this is so fucking hot._

"Hi," Charles practically purrs into Pierre's mouth, like he's supposed to be there, like Pierre hadn't slammed the door in his face both literally and figuratively a few weeks prior, forcing his tongue between the Frenchman's teeth and biting a far-too-familiar and plump bottom lip until he gets the equally familiar sensation of iron. Charles, ever elegant and composed, lets out an embarrassing whine when the taste of Pierre's blood touches the tip of his tongue. 

_Sick bastard,_ Pierre thinks, licking the blood off his mouth and barely holding back his snarky laughter. He has to push Charles off of him to get air back into his lungs, gasping, head tipped back against the door as he regains his composure. Charles smothers like none other- and Pierre is sure that if he didn't intervene and demand a breath, he'd be suffocated, accidentally or otherwise.

"Long time, no see," Pierre finally says breathlessly, because it's true. He isn't really sure if he wants it to be true; he'd rather not have the Monegasque here at all. Charles tips his head to the side in confusion like this isn't some sort of twisted epiphany. His hands still staple Pierre to the door like they belong there, pressing into angular hipbones just enough to keep him still.

It's familiar, but it shouldn't be. _Charles is someone else. _

Pierre is completely, utterly sure of it; Charles has been someone else for years, it just took Pierre way too long to realize it.

"Why are you here?" Pierre continues, not letting Charles speak. He drags his nails down the back of the younger man's shirt, enjoying the small shiver that racks his spine.

"Missed you," Charles whispers, tucking his face into the crook of Pierre's neck and nipping a dark spot there, like it's just that simple, like everything else between them isn't dissolved and gone, left in the sheets of Max's bedroom. Sometimes Pierre can still hear the Dutchman apologizing hysterically to him in his nightmares, Max's voice distorted like it's passed through an auditory equivalent of carnival funhouse mirrors. 

_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, we got carried away._

It's dirty and bastardized, Pierre knows it, this moment. When it was all said and done, when he had finally gotten out of there and through the sensation of endless bad days and weeks of misfortune, when he'd blocked Charles's number, taken their childhood pictures off his walls, and desperately moved on, or at least tried to- it felt good to finally be the one in control.

_Mission failed._

"Yeah?" he gasps, the sharp nip Charles's teeth on his neck leaving him trembling a bit.

"I'm sorry," Charles says earnestly, nuzzling the bruise he's left, exceedingly gentle in contrast.

And Pierre knows it's not the whole truth- if it were, Charles wouldn't have turned up on his doorstep with a backpack slung over his shoulder, a bag of what Pierre can only assume is alcohol and food to soften him up in his hand, both now abandoned in the foyer. Charles wouldn't have shown up smelling like unfamiliar clubs, wouldn't have broken hundreds of childhood promises over the decade and a half they'd known each other like fragile champagne flutes at the hands of a swinging bat.

_I'll always be there, Pierrot. I don't want anyone else in this world except for you._

Charles wouldn't have, and yet here they are, squaring each other up like predator and prey in the dim light of the entryway to Pierre's place. The fight is internal as much as it is external- Pierre's brain, wracking itself to determine what he should do.

Fight or flight.

"Don't lie to me anymore," Pierre says sharply like it's an ultimatum, but it's not, because Charles never listens anyway. He softens up in defeat, lets the Monegasque pull him into an embrace like the sea's ever-rolling waves tugging a ship into capsizing. Pierre is capsizing, he's sure of it. Maybe he'll be more like Max this way; unpredictable and unreliable, rather than simply tragic and unwavering.

"Let's go to bed," Charles finally mumbles self-assuredly, as if Pierre's bedroom is his own. He's breathing in Pierre's scent- the birch and rosemary of his favorite artisan soap, the kind Charles used to buy him as a small gift from the farmer's market in Beausoleil- like it'll draw the smoke and disgust from his lungs, like if he's in the presence of someone so undeniably good for long enough, it'll drag the bad out of himself, choke it off and make him as devoted and patient and merciful as the Frenchman.

As he lets himself get dragged under Charles's raging water, salt water filling his lungs and stinging his wounds, blood dyeing the water Ferrari red, all Pierre can do is catch himself in the mirror of the entryway and think-

_Who are you anymore?_

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all for reading, feedback is (as always) much appreciated!  
i have a couple chapters of convalescence and a silly AU (all you need to know is that Charles is a firefighter) in the works, if i find the motivation to finish them, expect those soon!  
stay safe everyone, much love <3


End file.
